Secrets of the Dead

  ‘In that case …’ Ingrid rested her hand on top of the printer. ‘I hereby rename you the Resurrection Machine.’

  He plugged in the machine and switched on. Lights on a control panel lit up. ‘Success,’ he said.

  ‘We have to talk, don’t we?’ Ingrid said.

  He felt his muscles tense. A confrontation loomed … but Ingrid remained in control of her emotions. She wasn’t icily cold; she was concerned, understanding and perfectly reasonable, which John found even harder to deal with.

  ‘Let me get this straight, John. You have a nineteen-year-old son called Ben Darrington?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It didn’t seem necessary.’

  ‘John, if the situation was reversed and I had a son from an earlier relationship, how would you feel if I hadn’t told you?’

  ‘I’d be surprised, and … well, curious.’

  ‘That’s how I feel. I’d add the words “in shock”, though. After all, the first I heard that he existed was when I answered your phone and someone told me that a stranger by the name of Ben Darrington had been hurt in an accident, and that Ben was your son! Which means, of course, that our children have a half-brother they knew nothing about.’

  Ben sighed. His wife remained calm and clear-headed. He knew she’d continue to interrogate him in a methodical way. She’d listen carefully to his answers, while studying his body language. Ingrid could read her pupils like a book; she could read him like a book as well. He knew how she ticked. She’d never get angry. However, she’d continue her forensic dissection of his answers with meticulous care.

  ‘It was a long time ago, Ingrid,’ he said, trying to be as open as possible. ‘Ben was born before I met you.’

  ‘It would help me deal with this, John, if you explained as fully as you can what happened.’ Her voice was gentle, even compassionate.

  ‘Once upon a time …’ He tried to lighten the mood. Not a good idea. ‘Sorry, this has come as a shock to me, too. I never thought I’d hear about him again. Well, here goes … I was twenty years old and living away from home at university. I met a girl who played in a band. She was called Carol Darrington. You could say she was a party animal, whereas I was quiet back then, and really shy. Awkwardly shy. She took me under her wing. I think she saw me as a project; she decided to turn me from an introvert to an extrovert. Carol stopped up all night drinking and partying, always the centre of attention and making people laugh. We had a relationship, but it was an odd one. She’d vanish for days on end. I thought she might have been seeing other men. I later discovered she went on drink and drug binges – it soon became obvious that this wasn’t just a young, fun-loving girl having a good time. Carol was, I guess, going off the rails. Sometimes she’d be fun to be with for a while, then she’d become this violent wildcat. I’d been seeing her for three or four months when I tried to persuade her to get help about the drink and drugs. She just went crazy and told me to mind my own business. We were in a pub when all this kicked-off; she spat a mouthful of beer into my face, got up, walked out. That was it. I only saw her one more time after that.’

  ‘You thought Carol was an addict?’

  ‘Yes. I blamed myself for not being able to help her. It scared me so much, because I was certain the drink and drugs would kill her.’

  ‘You were only twenty. Something like that is difficult to deal with even when you’re older. You shouldn’t blame yourself. So … Ben?’

  ‘Some time after we split up, I received a letter from her telling me that she was pregnant and I was the father.’

  ‘Carol wanted to see you again?’

  ‘No. She wrote saying that she didn’t want financial support from me for the baby, and certainly didn’t want to see me again. I tried to find her, but by this time she’d moved out of her flat. Her friends were sick and tired of her erratic behaviour and had given up on her, too. Carol simply vanished into thin air.’

  ‘You say you saw her again?’

  ‘A year after I received the letter, I was on a train as it pulled out of St Pancras Station. I clearly saw Carol standing on the platform. She carried a baby …’

  ‘It was definitely her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. No doubt about it.’

  ‘So, Ben has come back into your life?’

  ‘Seems like it.’ He didn’t want to appear abrupt, but discussing his own son, who he’d only glimpsed for a few seconds all those years ago, had left him shaking inside.

  ‘What I don’t understand is how this friend of Ben’s knew your phone number.’

  ‘That’s easy enough to explain. Ben broke his leg, and a doctor pumped him full of painkillers. Apparently, Ben was talking about me and repeating my name, even though he was only partly conscious. The friend found my website. It has my name and contact details, of course, so they just picked up the phone, and you answered the call at the barbecue this afternoon.’

  ‘We’ll need to tell Vicki and Oliver.’

  ‘That they have a half-brother?’ He nodded. ‘Of course. But I suppose that’s the end of the matter. I’m never likely to see him, am I? Ben’s never tried to get in touch with me, even though he knew my name and what I do for a living.’

  ‘You don’t intend to visit him in hospital?’

  ‘No, Ingrid. All this is just a fluke. A blip in our lives, that’s all.’

  ‘I wouldn’t try and stop you from seeing him. He’s your flesh and blood, after all.’

  ‘No. You, Vicki and Ollie are my family. For I all know, I might not be Ben Darrington’s biological father anyway.’ His hands trembled as he opened the printer manual again.

  Ingrid kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll support whatever decision you make.’ She gave a faint smile. ‘Now I’ll leave you to bring your mummy girl back to life.’

  ‘Ha … hardly that. I’m afraid the dead stay dead.’

  The night had a deeper darkness here.

  ‘Dark black,’ Oliver murmured as he gazed out through the open bedroom window.

  He knew his mother would have corrected him, if she’d heard what he’d just said; she’d point out that there’s no such thing as dark black. The eleven year old knew differently. The night was dark black here. Back home in London, night times weren’t dark at all. Millions of street-lights lit up the entire city.

  Oh … but here in Devon it was different. Oliver knew that the grounds surrounding Baverstock Castle were huge. There were forests, fields and hills, and there was loads of desolate moorland. All this land was privately owned. Even the roads hereabouts were private, so there was hardly any traffic. What’s more, there were only about ten houses in this part of the castle grounds. And now, at midnight – all was dark, all was silent.

  He leaned out, feeling the warm night air on his face. It had been a tiring day. The party had been amazing at the Oldfields’ house. He’d loved the water battle. Kids versus grown-ups. Oliver had made sure that his father had been drenched from head to foot. Normally, he’d have been fast asleep at this time, but a nagging worry had taken root inside his head. Earlier, he’d heard a snatch of conversation between his parents. They were talking about a son. However, they’d referred to the son as Ben, and Oliver had realized they were talking about another son of his father’s.

  ‘But I’m the only son they’ve got,’ he murmured. ‘There aren’t any more sons.’

  Yet he’d clearly heard them mention someone called Ben Darrington. The notion that a random person could suddenly become his father’s new son alarmed Oliver. He found it hard to put into words, but the feeling was of some frightening stranger roughly invading his family. Was this Ben going to push his way into their lives? Would Ben want this bedroom? Would his father like Ben Darrington more than Oliver?

  A little horror film played in Oliver’s mind. He saw his mother and father standing by the front door. His father hands Oliver a suitcase. ‘Oliver, we don’t like you any more. Your place is being taken by Ben. We like Ben
a lot. He’s better than you. Now, go away, Oliver, don’t come back.’ The door swings open. Oliver’s mother and father push him roughly out of the house.

  Oliver sees himself begin to cry in the mind-film. ‘Where am I going to live now?’

  ‘How should we know?’ says his mother in a spiteful voice. ‘It’s not our problem. You’re on your own.’

  Yes, just imagination. Even so, Oliver shivered. Those weren’t pleasant pictures inside his head. Oliver leaned further out of the window. He glimpsed a prickly, black ball moving across the lawn. The prickly lump was a hedgehog. It moved slowly with a rolling, side-to-side motion.

  ‘Oliver, shall we go night-walking?’

  The voice was so close that Oliver flinched with shock. He glanced back over his shoulder, convinced that someone was in the room with him.

  ‘Eyes front, Tolworth.’

  Startled, Oliver looked outside again. He realized that a figure stood on a tree branch, which was level with the bedroom window. A pair of eyes burned in the darkness.

  ‘Who is it? What do you want?’ Oliver’s heart pounded.

  ‘It’s me, noodle head.’

  ‘Fletcher?’

  ‘I’ve come to take you night-walking. Did you know that this area was once a tropical swamp a hundred million years ago? Dinosaurs walked where your house is. If a T-Rex was here right now it could stand on the lawn and its head would be level with your window.’

  Oliver blinked with surprise. Fletcher could say such funny things about science and stuff. ‘Why are you here? It’s midnight.’

  ‘Like I said, to take you night-walking.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m not allowed out at night.’

  ‘Frightened?’

  Oliver was tempted to lie and deny that he was scared, but seeing Fletcher being ill-treated today at the barbecue had made him feel for the boy. He decided to trust him as a friend. ‘I’m a bit scared. After all, you told me about the Egyptian mummies in the castle.’

  ‘What? That they’re all dried out? Crispy as cornflakes? Got hooky hands like claws?’

  ‘You said that when people slept that’s when the mummies woke up.’

  ‘I’m sorry I scared you, Oliver.’

  ‘And you were weird in the graveyard this morning. You pretended that you could press a button on the gravestone and it would make the coffins come up to the surface.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’

  Oliver’s eyes adjusted to the gloom; he clearly saw the boy standing on a branch that was level with the attic window. ‘It’s a long way down,’ he said. ‘Careful you don’t fall and bust your brains.’

  ‘You know, if I did fall, nobody would boohoo over my coffin.’

  ‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself, Fletcher.’

  Fletcher moved closer, his feet resting on the tree limb while his hands gripped another branch above his head in order to secure his balance. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Oliver?’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t involve dead people attacking me.’

  ‘No, nothing to do with that. People don’t like me. I mean, other kids at school, or even grown-ups who live here. You saw what happened when Mark Oldfield blasted me with the water. I wasn’t even taking part in the game. I was eating.’

  ‘Mark shouldn’t have done that to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Oliver. I’ll tell you another secret.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My dad doesn’t like me, either. He says I’m not right in the head. Which is true. My mother liked me. She made me mash and stew with Yorkshire puddings every Sunday. That’s my favourite. But I haven’t eaten it in three months and three weeks, because my mother’s in hospital, dying.’

  Fletcher’s words had come faster and faster; he was unburdening himself of truths that had been simmering away inside of him.

  ‘I’ll be your friend, Fletcher. I won’t stop liking you.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘Won’t.’

  ‘Will, because I’m weird. I don’t think like other people, Oliver. I get strange thoughts inside my head. I know I look strange as well. And when I say strange things I can’t help it. The words just come out of my mouth, and I can’t do anything to stop them.’

  Oliver retreated back into his bedroom.

  ‘Oliver … Oliver? See, I knew you’d stop liking me. You’ve gone back to bed, haven’t you? I’m the kid with the unlikeable bones, aren’t I? Bye, Oliver.’

  ‘Wait.’ Oliver returned to the window. ‘Here … catch.’

  He threw a red ball cap out to where Fletcher stood on the branch. Oliver could see that Fletcher reacted with surprise as he caught it. There was something else there in the boy’s expression. Hope. Fragile hope, but hope nonetheless.

  Fletcher asked, ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘It’s my cap. I bought it before we came to Devon.’

  ‘Why did you throw it to me?’

  ‘I want you to have it.’

  ‘Really? But it’s your cap.’

  ‘You have it, Fletcher. When you think you’re going to be weird, and can’t stop yourself, turn the cap around so the peak’s pointing backwards. That’s your signal that you’re going to say strange, bonkers, nutty stuff, but it’ll be OK, I won’t mind, I won’t take it seriously, because you’ve sent me a secret signal that you can’t stop yourself saying weird stuff, and you don’t mean it … not really mean it.’

  ‘That’s a great idea.’ Grinning, Fletcher put on the cap; he twisted it so the peak faced backwards. ‘Oliver. Spiders will run into your ear and eat your brain.’

  ‘That’s it. Just turn the hat around. It’s our secret sign. It’ll be great.’ Oliver paused. ‘You were just joking about the spiders?’

  Oliver rotated the cap so the peak faced forwards. ‘Yes. Although it’s a fact that every British spider is poisonous.’ He grinned. ‘But they’re only poisonous to flies, not humans.’

  ‘I’m going to go to sleep now, Fletcher.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll go night-walking another time?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Goodnight, friend Oliver.’

  ‘Goodnight, friend Fletcher.’

  Fletcher climbed down from the tree. Even though he vanished back into the darkness, Oliver heard him clearly enough. The boy sang to himself, happy as can be.

  There was plenty to occupy John Tolworth’s mind as he familiarized himself with the 3D printer in the back room of the cottage on Sunday afternoon. He’d only arrived here a couple of days ago, and hadn’t even started work properly, but already life had become that bit more complicated. He hadn’t expected that his childhood friend, Lord Philip Kemmis, would be living in the gatehouse – or that he would be clearly deranged. And yesterday afternoon he’d taken one of the most shocking telephone calls of his life. A friend of Ben Darrington, a son he’d never ever met, had called to say that Ben had been hurt in an accident. Was that a hint for John to visit his son?

  John didn’t know what to think. What appealed to him now was to escape into his work. He’d bought the 3D printer so he could build copies of badly damaged artefacts, including the pottery jars that had once contained the papyri that had been torn to shreds in antiquity before being hurled around the tomb like confetti at a particularly lively wedding. His attempts at modelling yesterday hadn’t been especially successful. So he’d attached his laptop again to the printer, downloaded new software, then plugged in the memory stick that Samantha Oldfield had given him. This contained a detailed CAT scan of the young female mummy. The restoration team had named this anonymous corpse Amber on account of the amber earrings she’d been wearing in her coffin. Although three thousand years old, Amber was still in a reasonable state of preservation, thanks to sophisticated mummification techniques and the arid part of the world where she’d been buried, resulting in only the faintest traces of moisture being present in the tomb that would cause decay.

  The 3D printer worked by melting a thin strip of plastic; then, using information contai
ned in the computer record of Amber, it slowly built up a 3D model. The key word was slowly. This print job had been running for hours. Inside the closed compartment, a printhead would be engaged in what would resemble an elaborate dance as it laid down layer upon layer of plastic in incredibly thin strips.

  John sipped his coffee. The machine hummed, clicked, whirred. Inside that cabinet the magic should be working – hopefully. If it did work properly, the printer would create a detailed 3D model of Amber’s head. He’d used a program created by the preservation team that should present the girl’s head as it was in life, with the ravages of death and centuries spent in the grave airbrushed out (as it were). When he lifted the model out of the printer he should see something approximating the head of a living girl. Of course, it would be in a single colour, the colour of the plastic used in the process. He’d need to paint in the lips, eyes, and so on, to produce a lifelike model.

  John finished his coffee while trying patiently to let the printer do its work. Should he be tempted to lift the lid of the printer compartment – something which he’d done before – in order to glimpse what was taking shape inside, the temperature would fluctuate, resulting in yet another failed attempt to produce a good-quality model.

  Then, at long last, he heard a ping. John nodded with satisfaction. Time to see what his resurrection machine, as Ingrid had named it, had produced.

  ‘OK, family, enter my laboratory.’ John Tolworth spoke jokingly. ‘It’s time to unveil my creation.’

  Ingrid, Vicki and Oliver filed into the back room of the cottage. On the table an object stood beneath a white cloth. John intended to make the reveal a dramatic one. He was proud of what he’d achieved.

  ‘So it worked, then, Dad?’ asked Oliver. ‘The three-D printer?’

  ‘Worked perfectly, Ollie.’

  ‘Can I print something? Like a gun or a penknife?’

  ‘You’re not having a penknife,’ Ingrid said firmly, realizing where her son’s line of conversation would take them. ‘Knives are dangerous.’